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But I did hate to be accused of plagiarizing Bret Harte, who trimmed and
trained and schooled me patiently until he changed me from an awkward
utterer of coarse grotesquenesses to a writer of paragraphs and chapters
that have found a certain favor in the eyes of even some of the very
decentest people in the land--and this grateful remembrance of mine
ought to be worth its face, seeing that Bret broke our long friendship a
year ago without any cause or provocation that I am aware of.
Well, it is funny, the reminiscences that glare out from murky corners
of one's memory, now and then, without warning. Just at this moment a
picture flits before me: Scene--private room in Barnum's Restaurant,
Virginia, Nevada; present, Artemus Ward, Joseph T. Goodman, (editor
and proprietor Daily "Enterprise"), and "Dan de Quille" and myself,
reporters for same; remnants of the feast thin and scattering, but such
tautology and repetition of empty bottles everywhere visible as to
be offensive to the sensitive eye; time, 2.30 A.M.; Artemus thickly
reciting a poem about a certain infant you wot of, and interrupting
himself and being interrupted every few lines by poundings of the table
and shouts of "Splendid, by Shorzhe!" Finally, a long, vociferous,
poundiferous and vitreous jingling of applause announces the conclusion,
and then Artemus: "Let every man 'at loves his fellow man and 'preciates
a poet 'at loves his fellow man, stan' up!--Stan' up and drink health
and long life to Thomas Bailey Aldrich!--and drink it stanning!" (On all
hands fervent, enthusiastic, and sincerely honest attempts to comply.)
Then Artemus: "Well--consider it stanning, and drink it just as ye are!"
Which was done.
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